


Virtue is a Grace

by Wheely_Jessi



Series: How Do I Love Thee? [3]
Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: Angst, Existential Angst, F/F, Fluff, Forgive Me, Grief/Mourning, I promise it's worth it for the fluff, Introspection, One Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2017-04-07
Packaged: 2018-10-15 23:27:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10559488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wheely_Jessi/pseuds/Wheely_Jessi
Summary: One-shot. Post 6x08. Patsy sits in the garden of Nonnatus House in the early morning after arriving home, to try and get a handle on her thoughts and feelings. Angsty introspection with fluff.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My brain seems to be continually prompting me to write these sort of angsty pieces from Patsy's POV - apologies. However, she isn't entirely alone in this one, and there is fluff at the end; so hopefully you'll stick with it.
> 
> Beta'd once again by the lovely @patiencebusby. Written in memory of my dear friend Lauren Scott (9th June 1992-7th April 2006) and for anyone struggling right now. Lots of love to you.

Patsy Mount had long ago decided that time worked differently for her than for everybody else – or, rather, that her _experience_ of time worked differently. Not in the colloquial, flippant, ‘Oh, I’m about to turn thirty, but I still feel as if I were nine’ way. Although she _was_ joining in with that, and had done for a while now, it was out of necessity. It provided a convenient cover for the fact that, often, that was _exactly_ how she felt. Perversely, somehow, these feelings coexisted with what might be considered their polar opposite – the sense that she was far older than her peers, and not merely as a result of her additional years of schooling.

Logically (and medically) speaking, of course, she knew it was an impossibility, since she had gone through all the ‘expected’ developmental stages. She also knew that, were she to mention it to any of her colleagues, they would think her positively absurd. It was, partly, the reason she had so swiftly abandoned her brief foray into psychiatric nursing – one of the many aspects of herself she had glimpsed in the eyes of the patients.

For all her attempts at dismissal and rationalisation, though, she could not shake the feeling that she seemed simultaneously not to have grown up at all and to have grown up all at once. More than that, she could pinpoint precisely the moment at which it had begun, should she so wish. She _did_ wish, and had done so for a while, but the trip to Hong Kong had made her realise it would be neither a quick nor a simple task – because, although it had thrown her existing struggles into sharper focus, it had also brought more to join them. Each new wound seemed to open the old ones afresh and somehow, with every resurfacing, they seemed rawer than they had when the original blows were struck – but perhaps that was just her mind, again. Still, if the physical torment had been harsh enough to leave the scars she still bore, how could she not have been emotionally affected?

She just needed to process things – but, oh, how many multitudes of emotion were couched in such a seemingly innocuous word as ‘just’! That was why she now found herself in the garden of Nonnatus House, having crept out of bed, dressed even more quietly than usual, and tiptoed downstairs early enough to avoid the kindly but curious nuns on the way to their morning duties. She knew she couldn’t be long, else Delia would wake alone and worry (and she had caused her darling far too much heartache already over the time she had been away), but she had craved a moment of solitude and solidity on a bench. The softness of shared sheets at last, however blissful, had felt at odds with the timid young woman into whom she had regressed the moment she crossed her father’s threshold. She needed to restore herself into the person she was _here_ before she could fully comprehend all that had changed.

She had to remember – and to forget – and what better reminder that the passage of time did not necessarily entail wreckage than a bench in the garden of a convent that had withstood the worst of wartime, just as she had? It was still here and she was here to find it; it thereby provided her with tangible proof that not everything she decided to invest hope in was mercilessly ripped away. It would also offer her, eventually, a helpful metaphor for the emotional justification of forgetting to write about her return. This was an (apparently) uncharacteristic lapse of judgement, for which Delia may have forgiven her but she would never forgive herself, despite knowing the reason behind it perhaps better than anything else in her life.

Everything (and everyone) she had ever allowed herself to love had died. Even, almost, Delia – and, having once wrested her from that worst of fates, when they had been separated again Patsy wasn’t prepared to be apart from her for a moment longer than necessary. Not for all the hasty notes in the world.

Words would have been insufficient, anyway; how could they possibly manage to convey the conflicted cocktail of dread and relief that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in her gut after the funeral? It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Delia to have stayed – far from it – but something a great deal more sinister and self-destructive. She didn’t believe herself to be worthy of being waited for and she knew, the longer she left it before getting on the ship, the stronger that searing self-doubt would grow.

So she ran without writing.

Then, when she arrived, the incredulous delight that her doubts were indeed as unfounded as she had hoped had rendered even spoken language nigh impossible. Hence the stumbled staccato sentences. Hence the ‘boldness’ under the streetlight. Physicality had, for once, seemed the safer option. Even whilst acutely aware of the quiet rage simmering when they met, the only reassurance she could muster (for them both) was that they were present. Now. And to offer that through willingly initiated intimate touch seemed far superior to talking. Conversations could wait until the morning.

As if on cue, soft footfalls drew Patsy out of her reverie, and she turned her head to find Delia standing just beside the bench – rosy cheeks, eyes of the brightest blue, tangible flesh and blood – and holding two mugs of steaming liquid. Delia smiled as their eyes met, gesturing hello with the precarious wave of a mug. ‘Patience is a Virtue, and Virtue is a Grace,’ she recited, carefully omitting the last lines of the verse in deference to the memory of her beloved’s little sister. ‘You look like the epitome of all three sitting there, which is no mean feat, considering how chilly it is out. So here’s your reward – no, not coffee, Horlicks – because afterwards it’s right back into bed with you.’ Patsy raised an eyebrow but, as she opened her mouth to protest, she was betrayed by a yawn.

Delia flashed a gentle grin, her voice as she spoke next holding no hint of triumph, only concern. ‘Sister Julienne’s orders – I passed her in the hall on my way to find you. It’s 5.30, you know, and, from the cold sheets I was greeted with, I’d say you’ve been here for at least an hour and a half.’ She gave an exaggerated tut, definitely in full Nurse Busby mode, and handed Patsy a mug. ‘Don’t look at me like that, I haven’t let anything slip – she’s just aware you’ll be exhausted from travelling and wants you to take things slowly. As do I.’ She paused, observing the slight tremble of the hands and lips she had grown to know and love so well, but refrained from commenting and opted for humour instead. ‘Now budge up so we can conserve body heat. It’s the least you can do after you’ve dragged me out of bed so early on a rare night off.’

Patsy complied, laughing in spite of herself, albeit quietly. Delia slotted into the vacated space and, at the sound of Patsy’s tentative mirth, felt her heart swell with joy. She squeezed her free hand. ‘ _Croeso_ _adref_ – welcome home, Pats. You’re safe here.’


End file.
